


savoir-apprécier

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bedelia has a not so secret crush on her patient, F/M, Therapy Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 01:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20417984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Bedelia’s fingers tensed around the glass flute as she tried not to appear suddenly interested in the exchange upon hearing the all too familiar name. And why should she? Hannibal Lecter’s eligibility was none of her concern. Yet, she found herself listening intently, waiting for the women to express their opinion about her patient, no matter how superficial.





	savoir-apprécier

It was too early in a day for alcohol.

She dismissed the attentive waiter with a shake of her head; she needed to keep her mind sharp, hoping to work on a paper later that day, but most importantly, to get through this brunch without having been enlisted in a scholar project or worse, being involved in party planning of some undistinguished sort.

She did not know why she agreed to attend this gathering in the first place; it was not like her to keep in touch with colleagues outside of yearly charity functions. Even that was a stretch for Bedelia as she was perfectly content to send a cheque and be done with it without the decorous fake smiles and forced small talk. Especially when it came to her female colleagues, but a week of persistent messages and here she was, surrounded by a group of women, chirping loudly like a congress of birds in mating season. A rather fitting comparison, Bedelia reckoned, as there was hardly anything professional about these monthly gossip sessions, no matter how well they were disguised as being work-related.

The women giggled and Bedelia reconsidered her self-imposed ban on alcohol. Perhaps a little cloudiness was what her mind needed more of. She beckoned the nearest waiter and helped herself to a glass of mimosa. It tasted of artificial sweetness, a fitting accompaniment to the saccharine insincerity of the conversation.

“I heard Richard is getting divorced,” one of the women announced in dramatically hushed tone as if divulging a secret of state and not a random hearsay.

An instant murmur moved through the table as the information settled among the rest of the flock, the gravity of the news confirmed by eager stares demanding more.

“I am not surprised,” another woman commented, her thin red lips pressing together matter-of-factually, matching nails wrapping around her empty glass, second or third, Bedelia had lost count and it seemed that the woman did too. “I heard his marriage was on the rocks for years,” the ice on the bottom of her glass rattled as if to emphasise her statement.

“He was considered quite in catch in our residency circles,” the first woman reclaimed the interest of the table, old times’ recollections were always a popular choice of a subject. Bedelia had never understood the appeal of lingering in the past; she expected better from medical professionals, alas, she was predictably disappointed.

“He was one of the _few_,” another woman interjected, smirking at the overestimation of the man’s eligibility, knocking him down in the secret ranking.Few furrowed brows betrayed sudden onset of critical thinking among the group.

“Most of them were successfully caught,” she paused, awaiting appreciation for her word play. Few bursts of laughter swiftly followed; Bedelia pressed her lips, exhaling slowly.

“Except for Patrick Jones,” she continued to establish her expertise on the subject, “And Hannibal Lecter.”

A moment of tense silence passed along the length of table while the women considered their options as if dogs on a hunt, finally permitted to sniff the scent of their prey, before the casual murmur returned.

Bedelia’s fingers tensed around the glass flute as she tried not to appear suddenly interested in the exchange upon hearing the all too familiar name. And why should she? Hannibal Lecter’s eligibility was none of her concern. Yet, she found herself listening intently, waiting for the women to express their opinion about her patient, no matter how superficial.

“I have never understood the appeal of Hannibal Lecter,” the red-lipped woman passed her ruling with an accentuated purse of her mouth, way too eagerly, perhaps hiding a painful rejection.

Or perhaps, having _the poorest_ of tastes. Bedelia pressed her lips anew, hiding a grimace of contempt.

“Well, he is not good-looking in a conventional way,” the expert on desirable men joined in at once, shaking her empty glass at the passing waiter.

Rather _rude_, Bedelia considered, but so was the rest of the woman’s demeanour.

“He has quite an appealing build,” a third woman dared to voice her opinion as the waiter took the other woman’s order, in a somehow uncertain tone. A barely audible murmur of response indicated that her hesitancy was warranted, her judgement left unsupported.

Bedelia raised an incredulous eyebrow, her mind instantly shifting to images of her patient, his tall stature and broad shoulders, perfectly framed by wool and silks of his suits. Each time she walked him to the door, her eyes would scrutinise the line of his arms and back, so tempting in their strength. The taunt muscles of his chest were not visible behind the three-piece suits he favoured, but she was certain they were there. At times, as she watched him adjust the button of his jacket, catching a glimpse of what might be hiding underneath, she imagined what it would be feel like to press her hands and _more_ against his chest, a completely inappropriate notion, she swiftly banished from her thoughts.

“But his face is just odd looking,” red nails clanging against a freshly refilled glass, the woman’s voice brought Bedelia back to the present moment. Her raised brows now furrowed.

“Those weird cheekbones,” another voice concurred.

The hum of agreement intensified. Bedelia’s lips turned into a thin white line as she tried to stop herself from engaging. The discussion was immature, belonging in the hallways of a school during recess time and not on a meeting of professionals. And it was hardly her business who finds or does not find Hannibal Lecter attractive. Even if their arguments were utterly ludicrous.

_Why should she care?_

He was her patient, that is all; a fact that was unknown to all present and she would keep her professional oath.

“I don’t understand why he had switched from surgery to psychiatry,” the pundit of all things men spoke anew, the gravity of her tone indicating that this random fact had a direct impact on diminishing Hannibal’s appeal.

This time Bedelia hid a smirk behind a rim of her glass; she was not aware the medical specialities were ranked according to attractiveness. Still, her tongue itched in her mouth, stream of unspoken words on a brim of spilling.

“The psychiatric society would disagree. His latest paper on personality disorders was very elucidating,” the syllables formed on her lips before her mind had a chance to stop them, each word sharply pointed, reaching its target in an instant.

Silence enveloped the gathering, the clinking of utensils and the chatter from the neighbouring tables being the only remaining sound. All the women turned to look at Bedelia as if only now aware of her presence and utterly confused by the unexpected introduction of topic actually related to the purpose of the meeting. She held their gazes; she should not have gotten involved in this muddle of a discussion, she knew it well, but she could not deny enjoying the perplexed expressions adorning the faces around her.

Except for one face; red lips pursuing, the woman observed Bedelia, eyes flashing with immediate interest, catching a whiff of a possible shiny new rumour.

“I see someone has their eye on Hannibal Lecter,” she proclaimed with a wide, fake smile and a hungry for revelation stare, once again bringing the conversation down to a teenage level.

“I have my eye on any work worth reading,” Bedelia responded calmly, even though her cheeks became suddenly warmth under a threat of a violent blush.

_She should not have gotten involved. _Why did she? Bedelia questioned her own motives, keeping the apparent answer out of the peripheral of her mind.

“We should strive to expand our knowledge,” she continued, not waiting for a response, “Is that not the whole point of our profession?”

The question mark hung heavily in the space between them as another spell of silence was cast, more awkward this time, as the women considered the unanswered query in all its obvious.

“So, I was thinking gardenias for the annual luncheon,” matter-of-factly voice broke the quietude and a general exhale marked a relief that the conversation had been guided back on a programmed route.

More women joined in eagerly to express their opinion on this matter of utmost importance while Bedelia finished her drink, still painfully aware of the heat in her face. The meeting will be over soon, she reminded herself, and she can put all this nonsense behind her.

She hoped that this was not one of the recollections any of the women would enjoy retelling during future gatherings.

Forty minutes into their session, Bedelia inclined her head in silent encouragement as Hannibal began retelling his recent misfortunes at the farmers market.

It was not a revolutionary tell, but she listened with genuine interest, enjoying the fluidity of his tone and the sound of his voice more that she would allow herself to admit.

The sun began to set outside, low streams of golden light pouring through the tall windows and reaching all the way to her patient’s seat, its glow accentuating the sharp lines of his face.

A faint smile glided over Bedelia’s lips as she appraised them, her fingers tingling with a curious want, as though ready to touch and examine the honed edges.

Hannibal continued his narrative, his hands stretching idly over his crossed leg, fingers lengthening to emphasise his disappointment with the lack of dark chocolate of appropriate quality.

His hands were not what one would expect from a surgeon’s hands; they were muscular and lined, betraying strength, just like the rest of his stature. Yet, when they moved, it was with utmost elegance and finesse. 

She liked to watch him button up his coat or reach for the offered glass of wine, always so graceful in his gestures, long fingers wrapping around the stem of the glass one by one, like a well-choreographed routine. Bedelia considered them wrapping around something else, or rather someone, _her;_ encircling her waist and pulling her strongly towards him only to then touch her softly.

“Is everything all right, Doctor?” Hannibal’s voice almost startled her. Lost in her fantasies, she had not realised when he had finished his account.

“Yes, I apologise,” she said at once, sitting taller in her chair, eyes moving to rest on her patient with fresh focus, “Please, start again. We can extend the hour to make up for the lost time,” she kept her gaze on his face, even though she wanted nothing more than to avert her eyes, feeling overly self-aware of her moment of _weakness_. The ridiculous gossip session she had to endure last week was undoubtedly to blame.

“There is no need,” Hannibal responded, “As long you are feeling well.”

His mouth turned up in a bright smile and Bedelia felt a burst of heat inside her, like warm honey sliding down her throat.

Like a doe-eye teenage girl facing her first crush.

They waited for the wine to settle in their glasses, an excellent choice of Pinot Grigio, refreshing and zesty, exactly what she needed to be rid off the remnants of her earlier thoughts, still clinging stubbornly to the back of her mind, blunting its sharpness.

Bedelia inhaled deeply and took a first, appreciative sip, the sourness welcomed on her tongue.

“I ran into Sarah Davies yesterday,” Hannibal mentioned all too casually, still turning the glass in his hand.

Bedelia kept her face steady, even though her thoughts began to race at the revelation of Hannibal meeting the very woman who was so eager to exploit her for any rumours just days ago.

“Apparently, she is in charge of organising the hospital’s next charity event,” he brought the glass closer to his nose, inhaling slowly.

Bedelia barely nodded in acknowledgement, the muscles of her face suddenly tense, as she anxiously awaited his next words.

“Would you be joining the luncheon?” Hannibal asked, his eyes darting to her, strange spark she did not understand lighting his gaze.

“I will not,” she responded at once, eyes on her glass as she remembered the tediousness of her last social engagement. And its _main topic_. She lifted the glass to her lips, trying to conceal her face in case of any revealing blush that might stir Hannibal’s interest.

“It is probably for the best, they can be quite dreary,” he responded simply, smiling at Bedelia afresh, putting her comfort over his eagerness, a peculiar sentiment she was yet to deconstruct.

But he did not say anything else; her presence at the brunch must have remained unmentioned. Her mind no longer at full alert, Bedelia relaxed, taking another sip of her wine. Hannibal followed her suit, savouring the taste and smiling appreciatively at the notes.

“I was delighted to hear that you had enjoyed my article,” he spoke all of the sudden, the glimmer in his eyes now brighter, its essence finally revealed.

Liquid caught in her throat, Bedelia made an effort to swallow it slowly, grateful she had managed to avoid any spillage, attempting not to show her unease.

“It was very insightful,” she answered truthfully, setting the half-full glass aside. She had had enough of bitter tastes for one day.

Hannibal’s smile widened, his eyes taking her in with obvious delight, an unusual reaction to a modest praise.

“Not everyone seemed to have share your point of view,” he carried on in the same casual tone.

“Not everyone can appreciate a value of real knowledge,” she countered, determined to keep to the topic even though she was no longer certain what the topic was.

“You are quite right,” Hannibal concurred, now turning to face her, “but their opinions do not matter, they never did.”

The feeling of deep warmth returned to her chest, unfurling further under his fervent stare.

“Only yours does.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know, how could anyone not find Hannibal/Mads attractive?! Yet I have met such strange people and that made me think of this idea. Group mentality is also partially responsible for the women's opinion here. And we don't have enough stories about Bedelia's attraction to Hannibal during therapy years.  
The title is a play on the phrase "savoir-vivre", rules of which were severely lacking among the group.  
If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment, thank you!


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